Читать книгу Fleet of the Damned (Sten #4) - Allan Cole - Страница 19

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE DUSTY GRAVCAR sputtered feebly over a country lane. It was an elderly design: long, boxy, with an extended rear cargo area. And the way it was balking, it was plain that it had been under constant and varied lease since it had left the factory.

The salesman hunched over the controls seemed as weathered and as old as the vehicle. He was a large man with a broad, friendly face and bulky shoulders that strained at his years-out-of-date coveralls. The man hummed peacefully to himself in an off-key voice timed to the sputtering McLean drive engine. As he drove in apparent complete ease and relaxation, his eyes swiveled like a predator’s, drinking in every detail of the landscape.

This was poor land, pocked with rocks and wind-bowed clumps of trees. It seemed to be one dry gale away from becoming a permanent dust bowl.

During the course of the day, the salesman had skimmed past a half a dozen sharecropper farms tended by a few hollow-eyed Tahn immigrants. He had hesitated at each place, noted the extreme poverty, and gone on. None of them were places where a normal being would have even asked for a friendly glass of water. Not because of the hostility—which was real and more than apparent—but because if it had been given, it might have been the last few ounces of water left on the farm.

In the distance he spotted a sudden shot of green. He shifted course and soon came upon a large farm. The earth seemed comparatively rich—not loam, but not rock either—and was heavily diked with irrigation ditches. In the middle of the spread were big shambling buildings surrounding a small artesian pond. This would be the source of wealth. Several people were working the field with rusted, creaking machinery.

Still humming, the man eased the gravsled to a stop next to a cattle guard. He pretended not to notice the instant freezing of the people in the field. He casually got out under their burning stares, stepped over behind a bush, and relieved his bladder. Then he struck a smoke, gazed lazily about, and walked over to the fence railing. He peered with mild interest at the men and women in the field—one pro judging the work of others. He gave a loud snort. If he had had a mustache, the honk would have blown it up to his bushy eyebrows. The snort seemed to be both a nervous habit and a comment on the state of things.

“Nice place,” he finally said. His voice hit that perfect raised pitch that a farmer uses to communicate to a companion many rows away.

The group drew back slightly as a middle-aged Tahn, nearly the salesman’s size, strode forward. The salesman smiled broadly at him, pointedly ignoring the others who were picking up weapons and spreading slowly out to the side.

“Wouldn’t think you could grow kale crops in these parts,” the salesman said as the Tahn drew closer.

He looked more closely at the fields. “’Course they do look a little yellow-eyed and peaked.”

The man stopped in front of him, just on the other side of the fence. Meanwhile, his sons and daughters had half ringed the salesman in. He heard the snicks of safeties switching off.

“Next town’s about forty klicks down the road,” the farmer said. It was an invitation to get the clot back in the gravcar and get out.

The elderly salesman snorted again. “Yeah. I noted that on the comp-map. Didn’t seem like much of a town.”

“It ain’t,” the Tahn said. “Next Imperial place gotta be two, maybe two and a half days go.”

The salesman laughed. “Spotted me, huh? What the hell, I ain’t ashamed. Besides, being a farmer is the only citizenship I claim.”

The man stared at him. “If you’re a farmer,” he said, “what you doin’ off your spread?”

“Gave it up after eighty years,” the salesman said. “You might say I’m retired. Except that wouldn’t be right. Actually, I’m on my second career.”

The farmer’s eyes shifted, checking the positions of his brood. He inspected the horizon for any possible Imperial reinforcements. “That so?”

Death was whispering in the salesman’s ear.

“Yeah,” he said, unconcerned. “That’s so. Sell fertilizer gizmos now. My own design. Maybe you’d be interested in one.”

He pulled out a much-used kerchief and honked into it. Then he looked at the kale fields again. He noted some blackened areas in the distance; this was just one of many Tahn farms, he understood, that had been hit by roving gangs of Imperial settlers.

“Wouldn’t help with the withering, but one of my fellas sure as hell would take the yellow out.”

“Mister,” the farmer said, “you’re either a damn fool, or—”

The salesman laughed. “At my age,” he said, “I’ve gotten used to a lot worse things than being called a fool.”

“Listen, old man,” the farmer said. “You’re Imperial. Don’t you know better than to come near a Tahn place?”

The salesman snorted. “Pish, man. You’re talkin’ politics. Never gave a damn about politics. Only thing I got in common with politicians is what I sell. Matter of fact, fertilizer’s a lot more useful. And my stuff don’t stick to your boots, either.”

He turned to the cargo compartment of his gravsled. Instantly weapons came up. The salesman just pulled several small bottles out of a carton. He held one out for the farmer, his face total innocence.

“My calling card,” he said.

Cautiously, the Tahn farmer reached over the fence and took one of the bottles. He looked at the printing on the side. The salesman figured that the time was ripe for introductions.

“Ian. Mahoney,” he said. “Fine cider and fertilizer… Go ahead. Try it. Whipped that batch up myself. A little raw, but it’ll do the job.”

The farmer opened the bottle and sniffed. The sweet smell of apples drifted out. And underlying it, there was the sharp odor of alcohol.

“It’s nothing serious,” Mahoney said. “Maybe seventy-five proof or so. Take a honk.”

The farmer sipped, then sucked in his breath. It was good stuff all right. Without hesitation, he chugged down the rest of the bottle.

“That’s damn fine cider,” he said.

Mahoney snorted. “You oughta see my fertilizer. Nothing clotting organic in it. All pure, sweet-smelling chemicals. Great for the plants, and you don’t have to worry about the kids getting ringworm—long as you keep ’em away from your cattle.”

The farmer laughed. Mahoney noted the weapons being lowered. Then, with some relief, he saw the Tahn wave his hulking children over to him in a friendly gesture.

“Say, mister,” the farmer said. “You got any more of that cider?”

“Sure thing.”

And with a honk of his nose, a grin, and a scratch of his behind, Major General Ian Mahoney, commander of the Imperial First Guards Division, reached into the back of his gravcar to buy the boys a drink.